


There Is No After

by ishouldwritethatdown



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (badly), Angst, Canonical Character Death, Coping, Gen, Series Finale, i still dont know how to tag things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishouldwritethatdown/pseuds/ishouldwritethatdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epilogue to Harold's story, leading up to meeting Grace in Italy after the defeat of Samaritan. He's a mess of guilt, anger, and sadness and he knows The Machine is trying to help but he's really, really, /really/ not in the mood. ((My useless attempt to dull the pain and/or inflict it on all of you))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The phone was ringing for the fifth time that day. Harold was trying to remember if he had ever ignored Her for this long before. He always eventually relented and picked up; not this time.

The trilling was more of a nuisance than anything. It would go for an endless amount of rings, it seemed. Or, at least until a stranger got too curious or annoyed and tried to pick it up, at which point the call would abruptly cut.

He supposed She was just as stubborn as he was. That, and a million other likenesses he'd rather She'd strayed from. But then, you couldn't really choose which traits your child inherited, could you?

"Are we going to spend the rest of my life this way?" Harold asked under his breath, knowing She would hear it.

Without him picking up the phone, She couldn't give him an answer. They both knew this, but Harold could imagine Her reply as clear as if he could hear Her voice.

"No, Harry, because eventually you're going to get bored of being mad at me," She would say.

But he wasn't going to get bored of it. The constant trilling of a nearby phone would just become something else he had to tune out. Another immovable object to be navigated around.

But She probably knew this. She just didn't want to be the first to give up. It was a stalemate where neither player was willing to admit the game was over.

Once he finished his tea he began the walk to the Library, a trail of ringing payphones left in his wake. It was strange to be heading back there, after so long away. His instinct told him to steer clear, to stay out of Samaritan's phantom reach - it had become second nature to slip between shadows, even more so than before.

The old place was a mess. Harold was disheartened to find his old workstation decorated with shattered glass, and photos from numbers cast over the floor. At a glance, he could see Detective Carter's. He dared not dig around in case he found more friends. There was a strong smell of gunpowder that seemed to be coming from where John's arsenal had been abandoned, but he had no desire to investigate further.

On the aisles, books had been flung from the shelves and then coated in a thick layer of dust. The safe behind the Ghost In The Machine shelf was absent, presumably confiscated to be cracked or blown to pieces. Bear's dog treats could be seen scattered amongst the chaos as well.

Harold had hoped, foolishly, that returning to the Library might feel normal somehow. Everything could return to normal if he came back here; if he started taking numbers again; if he set about the search for a new partner.

But the plan was so fatally flawed that he came to doubt that he even wanted its goal at all. To come back here made less sense than to return to the Subway; to take more numbers he would have to answer the phone; and as for a partner...

Ms. Shaw and Detective Fusco had made it out of the final stretch alive. If he wanted to continue Nathan's Contingency, why wouldn't he reach out to them for help?

He knew the answer. So did The Machine. That was why She kept ringing the phones.

Finch left the Library as quickly as he was able. He felt irrationally exposed there, no longer a place of secrecy and safety. Or maybe he just couldn't bear the happy memories founded there turning sour on his tongue.

The cell phone in his pocket pinged. With a sigh, he extracted it from his jacket and read the notification:

REMINDER: Your flight to Rome, Italy leaves at 18:30

In frustration, he walked over to a nearby trilling payphone and plucked it from its box.

"Finally," She said, sounding like She had just been given fresh air. "That's the longest you've ever held out on me."

"Why did you book me a flight to Italy?" Harold asked, and although his words were measured he was clearly irritated.

"Because we both know you weren't ever going to "get around" to flying over there yourself," She replied. She had a tone in her voice like She thought he was being unfair.

"And what makes you think I want to go to Italy?" he asked.

She gave a tired tut, "Harry, punishing yourself like this won't do any good. Get on your flight and find Grace. Have the normal life John wanted you to."

Harold's heart plunged into his stomach at his name. For a moment, he was breathless, unable to speak. "Don't talk about John," he commanded.

"He sacrificed himself so you could be-"

Harold put down the receiver. The phone immediately started ringing again, and he ignored it. He kept walking for a stretch, but lost patience. The stalemate was broken, anyway. He picked up another phone.

"Aren't you the least bit happy that I'm still alive?" She asked, sound both hurt and annoyed.

"Of course I am," Harold replied, "but I could do without the ceaseless pestering."

"I prefer 'insistent caregiving'," She corrected cheerfully.

"Be careful with that," he responded in a weary voice.

He could practically hear Her roll Her eyes. "Oh, relax, Harry. I'm not going Samaritan. I know the difference between helping and controlling. And besides, you're a special case."

"Don't you have a free will protocol?" Harold reminded her, a blunt edge to his voice.

"Of course. I also have an Admin protocol which allows me to make suggestions-"

"And endlessly harass me?"

"-and calculate the most positive probable outcome on a personal level," She finished. There was a pause where neither of them spoke, then She added in a gentle tone, "You deserve to have your happy ending."

"On what grounds, Ms-" He stopped himself from saying 'Ms. Groves.' "Why is it that I, of all people, deserve to live out the rest of my life in comfort and content? There are so many people far more deserving than I-"

"But you're the one with the opportunity," The Machine interrupted. Her tone was reasonable but insistent. "Harold, if you don't go to Italy then what will John have died for? What will Root? For you to live a life of misery, wishing for the things that could have been? For-"

"Stop, stop." He sounded resigned, exhausted. His gut felt twisted at the thought of his friends. He checked the time; 17:26. That was enough to pack and get to the airport.

"Talk to you later, Harry," The Machine said, and hung up. The tone lingered in Harold's ears long after he replaced the receiver and started walking.


	2. Chapter 2

The flight from New York had been an uneventful nine hours. It was much less interesting than the last trip to Rome, at any rate. Harold had read his books and failed to get any sleep, and The Machine had stayed quiet.

It was 1:14 by the time Harold had collected his luggage and found his way onto the Roman streets. The city held a rich golden glow that made it feel alive despite the absence of people. Harold took a taxi to his hotel, which was only fifteen minutes away.

After he had checked in, he had barely set foot across the threshold of his room before the phone rang. He thought about ignoring it, but at this point it would just be spiteful and disruptive.

"Ooo, this is cosy," She complimented. "I see you're wasting no time putting your unlimited funds back to use."

"Is there a reason you called?" Harold asked tiredly.

She seemed hurt. "Can't a father and a daughter take a little break to catch up?" she asked. She said it like a joke only She understood.

"Perhaps we should catch up when it's not the middle of the night," he suggested.

"Why?" She asked. "It's not like you're planning on getting any sleep, and no one's listening. Now is a great time for us to talk."

"There's not much to catch up on," Harold pointed out. "You're a supercomputer that watches everything, and apparently you've taken a special interest in annoying me."

The Machine sighed, "When you're right, Harry, you're right. But you should at least try to get some sleep."

"Goodnight," he answered drily, and replaced the receiver.

The morning came too quickly. Sunlight snuck through the windows. It illuminated the hotel room, which was almost exactly as it was when he entered it except for the books littered on most of the surfaces.

Harold had not gotten a second of sleep, and he hadn't attempted to. His luggage was filled mostly with books for this exact purpose.

He expected an early morning call, and he got one at 7:30.

"Good morning, Harry," She greeted cheerfully.

"Are you my personal alarm clock now?" he asked, deadpan.

"I'm whatever you need me to be," She answered. "But you know that."

Harold started to change into fresh clothes, leaving The Machine on speakerphone. "You know, sometimes I wish I hadn't made you such a good multitasker. That way you might be preoccupied with a number instead of babysitting me."

"Words wound, Harold," She replied in an exaggerated hurt voice. "Anyway, I called to say that Grace will be out painting today and I'm sending the directions to your phone."

Harold said nothing. He was dreading talking to Grace for a number of reasons. If he didn't go today - if he didn't go at all - she would continue with her life none the wiser. Maybe he had ruined enough lives already...

"I know what you're thinking, Harry, and I'm telling you she'll be happier knowing you're alive than continuing without a clue," The Machine said.

"I assume you have numbers on that," Harold replied, a little bitterly. He didn't always appreciate The Machine's predictive tendencies.

"There's only a .03% chance she won't be happy to see you, Harold," She told him.

He considered this. "You could be lying to get me to talk to her," he proposed.

"I can't lie, Harry," She reminded him. She was getting a little impatient. "You didn't program me that way."

"You don't seem to have had much trouble rewriting the bulk of your programming," he pointed out. "And you can lie; you did it just last week."

"That wasn't a lie," She stressed. "That was just a misdirection. And it was for your own good."

"And haven't you been saying this is for my own good?" Harold asked, his voice gaining heat although it stayed steady. "How many of my friends are you willing to ruin the lives of so that I have a chance at a comfortable life?"

There were several seconds where The Machine didn't reply. Her voice contrasted with Harold's harsh tone as Her voice stayed smooth and steady. Finally, She said, "You talk about this as if you wouldn't have done the same for them. Sacrifice was unavoidable - you're just angry that they beat you to the punch."

"Isn't it a tad hypocritical to preach the freedom of their sacrifices when you directly interfered with mine?" he asked, not disguising the sharp edge to the words.

"Harold, I know that you taught me that every life is equal, but I can't function without priorities," She insisted. A nostalgic tone wove its way into Her voice as she added, "Besides, have you ever had an argument with John about your importance? He wasn't going to let you die - there was no way."

Harold felt that drop in his insides again, like rocks had been dumped into his chest. He could still see the look on John's face when he locked him in the safe; more desperate than he had ever seen him. Already with a plan... Already...

"Harry? Are you still there?"

Her voice snapped him back into the present. He adjusted his glasses on his nose. "But more importantly: You weren't," he said, scornfully, as if he hadn't just travelled a week back in time.

"If you would stop and think about it for a moment, I didn't actually have much of a choice," She replied with her own thick layer of scorn. "John switched the cases before you locked him in the safe. He had the hardware in there with him! If I hadn't let him out, Samaritan would have stayed alive and ICE-9 would have killed the wrong ASI."

Harold didn't respond. After a few seconds, he moved to hang up the phone.

"Before you disconnect," She said hastily, "you should know that there's a sweet little coffee shop that serves sencha green just around the corner from where Grace is painting."


	3. Chapter 3

As he sipped his tea, his phone chimed. Resigned to Her constant badgering, he connected the call.

"You could put in your earbud. It would make this whole thing much easier," She suggested.

"I don't have one with me," Finch answered. "I didn't think I would be needing one."

"Hm. Well, I just thought I would notify you on the status of the investigation into Detective Riley," She said. She didn't seem eager to pick up their last conversation, though.

"Well?" Harold asked, somewhat impatiently.

"Preliminary investigations suggest that John Riley had an alibi for all major sightings of the Man In The Suit. They'll keep looking, of course, but his cover will hold. You made it pretty airtight, Harry. It's impressive, even for you," she complimented.

Harold didn't speak. John deserved better than this; even if his name was cleared, he would always be remembered as the detective who was accused of being a vigilante and subsequently disappeared without a trace. He could alter as many digital records as he wanted, give as many bribes as he wanted, but he could never change people's memories.

"I hope it also pleases you to know that Lionel was cleared from suspicion and his suspension from duty is being lifted," She added.

"That's some good news, at least," Harold replied, softly. He sipped his tea.

It was quiet for a few moments - as quiet as it could be in the coffee shop, with lighthearted chatter around him and a gentle but steady stream of customers being served - until The Machine asked, "How long are you going to stall?"

Harold gave no visible reaction. "If I didn't know better I'd say this was your version of 'Are we there yet?'" he said.

"I'm just giving you the full parental experience," She joked. "But seriously, when are you going to go talk to Grace?"

"When I've finished my tea," he answered, in such a reasonable way that She couldn't have argued with him and won.

Harold put the phone down on the table but didn't hang up, leaving the conversation open but not active. He drank his tea in silence for a few minutes, and then The Machine made the phone vibrate to indicate that she wanted to talk to him again.

"I just gave Shaw her first number. I wanted you to know that," she informed him, like a child eager to share their achievements. She sounded slightly nervous about saying it, too.

Harold gave a small nod, "I see." There was a pause. "Has Ms. Shaw inquired about my whereabouts?"

"No," She mused. "I think she's accepted that you're gone, and she's just... moving on. There's a lot of that today; moving on."

When Harold didn't take that comment further himself, she continued, "A little bit of moving on and going back at the same time, really. We've come full circle, in a way."

"Is this going to turn into a lesson about history repeating itself?" Harold asked disapprovingly, "because I would rather not be thinking about the illusion of human advancement at the moment."

"You don't think you've advanced as a species?" The Machine asked.

"There will always be good people and bad people," Harold dismissed. "World peace is an impossibility. Human nature won't allow it. That's all I meant."

"Philosophy is very interesting to me," She stated.

"I'm sure it is," Harold agreed wearily.

"For example, what defines world peace?" She posed the question like it was one She was about to answer Herself.

"Indeed."

"Is it on an international scale; treaties between countries and no more wars? Could there be an "official" world peace while secretly it is at war with itself? Is world peace more personal, meaning no one dies as a direct result of war? Would world peace not be established unless all civil wars and intra-country disputes were settled?"

Harold had stopped listening about three rhetorical questions ago. On another day, in another place, he might've found the topic interesting. He sipped his tea as he contemplated what it was to be at peace, independent of The Machine, who was asking the same questions aloud.

"You've finished your tea," She informed him, several minutes later.

Harold wasn't sure how many minutes ago She had stopped talking about world peace. "Thank you for the information," he replied, as if he hadn't been about to take a sip from an empty cup.

"That means it's time for you to talk to Grace," She told him.

"Really? I didn't know. You haven't been reminding me every five minutes."

"Everything will be fine, Harry," she assured him.

"I might believe you more if you stopped insisting everything will be fine," he mumbled. He kept the phone to his ear while he walked.

As he rounded the corner, She said, "Look, there she is."

She didn't need to point her out to him. Grace was painting by the water, like he had seen her do so many times before. Her crimson hair shone brighter than a lighthouse to him, a beacon calling him over. Her delicate brushstrokes on the canvas - oh, he had missed watching her work.

Harold was frozen in place, with the phone pressed against his ear, eyes fixed on Grace, on what might be his happy ending.

"Go on, Harry."

He tore his eyes away, resenting his inability to motivate himself forward. In scanning the crowd, he caught sight of a tall man that resembled John, just briefly - for just long enough to make it feel like he had cinderblocks strapped to his ankles and an extra tonne weighing down his chest. Automatically, he searched for the face he had recognised, and, unsurprisingly, didn't find it.

"You know, if you had an earpiece I could walk you through this entire-"

He hung up the phone, straightened his back, and started to walk over to Grace. He paused again when he got closer, telling himself it was his last chance to turn back - that if he took the next steps he would have to explain everything, and bring Grace back into the mayhem that was his life.

Unconditionally, that's what she'd said - but unconditionally never meant unconditionally, only that you would love them despite anything you conceived they were capable of doing. Maybe she would still love him. Or maybe what he had become was inconceivable.

It was 13:59. He made a deal with himself. He would do it at 14:00. 2 o' clock, he would step forward. He would talk to Grace.

The seconds ticked down. 2 o' clock was approaching far too fast.

No, this didn't feel right. He would come back a different day. Maybe earlier than 2 o' clock was best.

Before he could turn to leave, Grace seemed to sense someone watching and she turned. When her eyes landed on Harold, recognition turned to disbelief. For a panicked moment, he regretted his final step. Then her mouth broke into a wide, shocked smile which told him one, infuriating fact; that The Machine had been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *announcer voice* i hope you enjoyed your journey on the Pain Train, please let me know how much fluff im going to need to write to compensate for this


End file.
